End in Fire
by Smellen of Troy
Summary: Eight Days of Luke future fic.The world ends.DavidLuke slash


"Some say the world will end in fire,

Some say in ice,

From what I've tasted of desire,

I hold with those who favor fire,

But if it were to perish twice,

I know that for destruction ice,

Is also great,

And would suffice."

Robert Frost

**End In Fire**

The sky is red over Baghdad and the ground is shaking. It must be the bombers. The people hide, awaiting a moment of peace that never comes.

The sky is red over Naples and the air is filled with ash. Vesuvius seeks his revenge on his earth prison, heedless of the innocent victims of his molten rage.

The sky is red over the Okanaugan Valley where echoes a mighty roar. Its ancient forests are engulfed in flames. A bolt of lightning, a half finished cigarette, an untended campfire: who is to blame?

The sky is red over Leeds. Who knows what the papers would say was the cause, if they ever got the chance to report it. They won't. And no one would be around to read about it anyway.

The earth's population will perish, unaware of the ancient game that brought about its end.

But David knows. He wakes in his dorm room to Fenrir's mighty roar. The sky is on fire and David knows: Ragnarok has come. The final battle of the old gods will rip the universe apart. They will destroy each other and life on earth will cease to exist. Yes, David knows.

He joins Alan, now his room mate, at the window.

"My god! What do you think is going on?" Alan shrieks grabbing the windowsill in panic as the earth shakes.

"The Final Battle" David answers calmly, sadly, "the end of the world."

Idly watching his fellow students on the campus grounds, uselessly running around screaming, David wonders where Luke is. As a Classics Major specialising in Norse mythology, he has a vague idea of what will happen. The wolves Skoll and Hati will devour the sun and the moon, plunging the earth into darkness. A nuclear winter will stretch across the land and all mortals will perish. From the north, Loki will sail down to the battle grounds in the ship, Naglfar, crewed by the inhabitants of Hel. The gods will slay each other on the vast plains of Vigrid. In the last moments of the battle, Loki will die by the hand of Heimdall.

David thinks, rather desperately, that maybe if he lights match after match after match, he can keep Luke here with him. Safe.

"I don't have enough matches" he mutters, as if it were the only flaw in his plan.

He picks up his tiny box front the corner of his desk, absently turning over and over in his hand.

"What?" Adam demands, pausing in his desperate search for a jumper to throw on over his pyjamas.

The building shakes again and the shelf above David's bed crashes down. They both look at it for a moment before David shrugs:

"Oh, nothing."

"We should get out of here before the whole building goes." Alan says, as he dashes out the door, shoving his arms into one of David's jackets as he goes.

David gives a non-committal grunt and doesn't even bother looking up when the door slams. He plays with his matchbox and thinks about Luke. It has been a long time since he has last seen the trickster. The older David got, the more Luke visited his dreams. The bright eyes and wicked smile always set his heart on fire and sent sparks running down his spine, no matter how much he pretended otherwise. The more he saw Luke in his dreams, the less he called him into his home. Their meetings never became awkward, as he feared they would, and Luke never begrudged him the long absences, but David was always afraid that "this time he'll know" "this time I'll say something stupid" "this time he'll be angry". But what did that matter now that the world was about to end?

David opens the box of matches and picks one out. He stares at it for a long time. The cacophony of noise outside seems to dim as his focus is narrowed to that one match.

_Maybe I can convince him not to fight. The other gods would kill each other off, but Loki would be safe. _

He prepares to strike the match.

_But what if he's already in __battle? Calling__ him could distract him long enough for Heimdall to strike the fatal blow. _

He puts the match down again and stares out the window at the glowing, red sky.

_Maybe I could help him. I could give him an advantage. Then he would beat Heimdall without the exertion killing him. _

He picks up his match again.

_But what could I do?_

He puts it down.

_Maybe he'd like to see me one last time._

Match in hand.

_He probably wouldn't come anyway. _

He throws the tiny wooden stick down on his desk. It bounces once and falls onto the carpet.

_But I would like to say goodbye._

David stands up and walks over to Adam's dresser. He knows that there is a new candle somewhere at the very back of the sock drawer. It is dark red with the numbers 1 through 25 printed down the side in gold. Adam's mother had sent it along in a care package last November in the vain hope that the boys would engage in a Christmas tradition that didn't involve copious amounts of alcohol. The candle hadn't even been taken out of its ribbon-clad box.

David takes it out now, along with Adam's extra lighter. He won't ask Luke to come now: Surely the god has more important things to do during Ragnarok than visit an old friend. David wants to say goodbye in his own way. He wants to spend his last moments on Earth thinking of his friend.

David's movements are swift and sure, as though performing a ritual eons old. He clears off his desk with a sweep of his arm. Homework assignments, textbooks and used tissues clatter onto the floor. He places his candle in the mouth of an empty beer bottle that he finds under the bed. It stands comically high and, when David sits in his desk chair, his eyes are level with the wick. David flicks the lighter and the light of the tiny flame fills the darkened room.

The candle seems to burn unnaturally fast. Perhaps time has sped up or David's mind has slowed, making time seem faster by comparison. He gazes into the flame and imagines that it's Luke staring back at him.

"I…" he tries to tell it, but his voice echoes strangely in the empty room and the rest of the sentence gets lost in his throat.

He watches the gold numbers disappear as the wax melts. He not so much thinks as feels that they are counting down the moments he has left. _Fourteen…Fifteen…Sixteen… Seventeen… _

A warm hand is placed on his shoulder, but he doesn't want to turn around because he's afraid to find that it's not really there. _Nineteen… Twenty… Twenty-one… _

He sees a blur of ginger in his peripheral vision and a soft pair of lips is pressed against his temple. _Twenty-two…Twenty-three…Twenty-four… _

"Me too," whispers Luke.

_Twenty-five. _

There is a roar, a scream and a wave of heat. Everything goes black.


End file.
